A Short Story About Psychopathy

"Don't you miss her?'' my brother had asked me with a breaking voice.

When I told him no, he sobbed and called me a monster, and punched my chest with his fists. I grabbed his wrists and held him still since I was much larger than him, looking into his face curiously, as he stared back at me with emotions in his eyes and flickering across his face in a language I didn't know how to read. I'd never seen him like this. I watched him, trying so badly to understand why he felt that way and I didn't.

I had suspected it for a long time. But that's the moment I knew I was different.

At our mother's funeral, I sat there quietly next to my brother in a room full of crying and sniffling people. People called me brave and strong, but I was simply playing the facts over in my mind, almost like if I kept taking them apart and putting them back together, they'd finally paint a picture that would unlock some door of my mind and make me feel the same way as my brother did.

This woman had adopted me when I was young after my own parents had ditched me. She took me as a little wolf into her small family of foxes -- just her, and her son, who was now my brother. She had never been cruel. She had never wounded me. She had provided a place to live for me, food for me to eat, clothes for me to wear. She sent me to school so I could learn. And now she was lying in the coffin in front of me and she wasn't coming back because of a blood clot in her brain.

What did it mean? My answer didn't change. That... now I would have to look after myself and my brother because the person who was doing it was dead? Was that it?

The reality was that I could never find a key to that door of my mind, because there was no door.

It was easier to continue my relationship with my brother now that we didn't have to hide it from our mother.

When my brother hugged me, I held my arms around him and listened to him sigh happily. When he really wanted to do something with me, I would do it. When he kissed me, I kissed him back. But I think he mistook my intentions.

This is before I really discovered what I am now. Back then, I was still figuring myself out. So I never tried to deceive him. It's just... it wasn't very clear to me at that stage what he knew and what he didn't. Back then, I didn't understand neurotypical people very well.

I did those things to make him happy so he would be more willing to have sex with me.

Which would make me feel good.

I never thought there was anything wrong with that. It was a mutually beneficial exchange of happiness. I protected him and made an effort to learn what affection was so I could give it to him. And he sucked my cock and swallowed my cum.

For the most part, I liked what we had. When I was young, I was kind of stumbling through this weird existence, trying to figure out what the point of it all was. When I realised there obviously was no point, pleasure was all I cared about. And from my brother's body, I could get pleasure. So I was somewhat content, I suppose. Perhaps we could have kept it going that way for a long time, but...

He'd never gotten over how I felt about our mother's death. One night, he asked me a question that had been coming for a long time.

"Wex... if I died... would you miss me?''

It didn't surprise me that he asked. What did surprise me, was that I wasn't actually sure of the answer. He was the one person, at least at that point in my life, who was closer to me than anyone else. I was so interested in myself. I couldn't shake the curiosity. To be honest, I didn't really try to.

Would I miss him? A brother and lover devoted to me? Whom I had shared every moment of my life that I could remember with? Would I mourn for him? Regret what I did? Feel bad?

All I can remember of smashing his head against the brick wall is that I came harder than I'd ever cummed before inside his spasming body.

I did miss having someone I could fuck whenever I wanted.

But other than that...

The next day I had an exam. I sat the exam and scored well. I didn't think about my brother. I forgot he was even dead right up until I stepped inside my house that evening and he wasn't there. It was a little colder in bed without him next to me, but I got an extra blanket out of the wardrobe. I slept better because I didn't have to concern myself with not waking him up. My life continued as normal.

My brother believed he loved me. He told me he did every day. But he didn't love me. That much is obvious to me, even as someone for whom love is foreign and untouchable. He could never quite comprehend what I actually was. So he loved what he thought I was instead. He thought I was just distant and cold and hard to reach. He thought that with enough love and affection and making me happy that he could change me. Soften me and warm me. But he never wanted to believe I was different on a fundamental level that set me apart from him in ways he would never be able to reach across.

He would always question me. "How can you not miss our mother?'' or "Why don't you feel bad about what happened?'' or "Can't you see why that's sad?''

And it always annoyed me. I would never respond anything less than truthfully. I genuinely wanted him to understand me. I would reply, "I'm aware that she was here, and now she's gone. And I preferred it when she was here, and if I had the choice I would prefer for her to be now. But I don't have the choice, so I can't see the point in feeling anything about it''.

My honesty would upset him, because he loved me and he wanted to keep loving me, and he couldn't love that. So I don't think he ever really accepted the things I told him. He kept believing I was something else. And he was wrong.

I learnt that love makes people really fucking stupid.

I forgot about him.

But I couldn't forget about the pleasure I'd gotten from his death. Ironically, in the end, he did change me, though in a very different way to how he had always intended. He showed me who I was. He showed me a way of living in which I could get more pleasure than I had ever imagined. In that moment, I knew I wanted to live the rest of my life in pursuit of that pleasure. I sometimes wonder if the truth finally sank into his shattered skull as his life slipped away.